White
by KarasuNoMai
Summary: If it was possible to become full of a color, then Inoue Orihime was most certainly full of white. UlquiHime drabbles, vignettes, oneshots.
1. White

--

"_Why are the uniforms white?"_

_She asked._

--

If it was possible to become full of a color, then Inoue Orihime was most certainly full of white.

White. White.

It curled around the corners and spread across the ceilings like anti-gravitational paint. It cloyed around the edges, and crawled around the walls. It consumed. And Orihime consumed _it_.

And even when she was full to bursting, she swallowed up that white until she could barely breath. She swathed it around her body; a stark white cape against a stark white dress. It asphyxiated her, and yet she continued to bring it to her mouth, her eyes, he ears, her nose, her heart, her soul.

All of which,

Were full of white.

--

In the shadows,

Ulquiorra watched her. Watched her eat up all that white.

He himself had already fed himself, fed himself to bursting. He had already eaten so much white, so much white that it had consumed him whole. He was at the point where he could eat no more. He was white, white to the very core.

And he watched her. Watched her feed herself to bursting.

Watched her feed herself with white.

--

The humans are covered in stains.

That was the first thing he noticed, as they forged their way through the crisp, white citadel of Las Noches.

How disgusting, and dirty. _Stained. _

Shameful. Messy. He scorned them, for daring to step foot into the blinding immaculacy of his beloved white world.

Undoubtedly, the mess will spread. Walls will cry crimson, crusting with gore. Floors will bleed gray ashes, curling into the air like dying snakes.

And the woman, that lovely white woman, took a single breath of color. He saw it in the morning, the flushing of her sheet-white cheeks.

How… unfortunate.

It would be such a shame, to let all that whiteness be tainted by stains.

Ulquiorra leapt forward.

--

Orihime felt her friends fall.

Almost as if she were right there next to them, she could see the burning black uniforms, the rivulets of dark red, and the malicious sheen of clashing steel.

It hurt her, to be blindsided by all these colors. It drug up the memories of others; the lush green of grass, the clear blue of sky, the bright pink, of a summer's day during the season of cherry blossoms. The rich plum, of a jar of sweet bean paste. The vivid orange, of _his_ hair.

She wished for the white.

She wished, for the absence of the burning black uniforms, the rivulets of dark red, and the malicious sheen of clashing steel. For with them would come the other colors, and vice-versa. She could feel it.

Her friends fell, splattering the whitewashed world with the stains of their toppling, and dragging down all semblances of peace as they lay down for the last time.

--

Later that night,

Orihime felt the white return to her cheeks.

--

_And he replied._

"_So that we may know we are still alive."_

--

* * *

**A/N: **Written on 06/14/09.

I appreciate any kind of feedback.


	2. Slap

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The feeling of her palm against his cheek is indescribable.

_Her hand is warm_, he notes vaguely, just as he feels his neck turn slightly to the side, his entire head pivoting from the blow. A sharp crack permeates the air; the sound of flesh against stone.

And then the contact comes to an end, the woman's hand retreating into a curled, shaking fist, clutched protectively --- almost regretfully --- to her chest. He hears a series of labored, gasping breaths, smells her fear, the adrenalin rushing through her body…

He turns his neck to look back at her, his expression unmoved. A question unfolds behind his emerald eyes, but the woman's vision in blurred by an onslaught of incoming tears. He can smell the saltwater in the air.

They stare at one another, maybe in shock, maybe in disappointment. The woman's brows are furrowed, her eyes defiant behind their watery veneer. For a moment, he tries to discern her expression, but finds he cannot. It is beyond his understanding. His attention shifts back to what just happened.

His cheek is still warm from the blow, and the heat of her hand. It almost stings --- but not quite. Her strike had force behind it; but no will. The almost-sting fades instantaneously, nothing but a memory on his _hierro_-hard skin.

He could have stopped it.

_The slap. _

To him, and his sharp eyes, the scene had unfolded itself in a literal kind of slow-motion.

To him, and his lightning-fast reflexes, it would have been all too easy to reach up and grab her wrist out of the air before she could land the blow.

To him, and his twisted, hollow heart, it was worth the drama to be able to see the woman in such a state. He is a curious creature, not by nature, but by choice, and revels in each opportunity to see his prisoner entertain him in such an inadvertent way.

He turns, pivoting on his heel, towards the door. His strides are long and measured; like that of a robot's, except infinitely more graceful. He does not look back.

The keening sound of her sobs follows him out the door.

--

**A/N:** Written on 4/23/09 (quite some time ago). This is also a bit of a repost, since my other account was causing trouble for me.

I appreciate any feedback.


	3. Sadist

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Despair.

It is a feeling like no other. To feel as if you are drowning, drowning within your own mind, your own _soul_… is indescribable. The feeling is terrible, horrible, and luridly gruesome. To feel despair is to feel like you are eating yourself from the inside out; drowning in an ocean of anguish and ice.

And there is no escape.

But it is a wonderful feeling, too. It rips away all other pains, all other trivialities, leaving you empty and breathless. In its wake, despair leaves nothing but strength. To be able to rip your own heart out, and to feel the tears drip down your face… as if they are staining themselves into your cheeks; crying for all of eternity.

_That_ is strength. To endure. To overcome.

The woman --- _Inoue Orihime_ --- harbors such an all-encompassing despair that even Ulquiorra, the creature who arrogantly considers himself to be the epitome of 'despair', finds that he is impressed. And what a strong woman she is --- though she does not realize it --- to have suppressed such anguish for so long. She is the second, besides the man who walks with no fear, to have ever gained Ulquiorra's respect.

It is because of this that the Cuatra Espada decides that he does not mind having to be the one to take care of her well-being. This way, he can observe her more often, recording her activities and verbosities and general mannerisms in his eye to that he may re-watch them later.

On the rare occasion that she cries, the teal tear-marks down his own cheeks seem to burn themselves into his skin. It is curious. Ulquiorra is unable to remember anything of his past human life, though he is certain that whatever sad, pitiful being he happened to be back then must have lead a very sorrowful existence. But he does not dwell on that. Whatever life he lived so long ago is inconsequential. What is said and done cannot be changed.

Still, her tears unnerve him. Ulquiorra does not remember what it is like to cry. It looks very painful, but he cannot be sure. He wonders if she is ashamed at her own tears; they embody her weakness and lack of resolve. Her sniffles and sobs do not appeal to him, for they are noisy and erratic, and yet he cannot bring himself to feel contempt.

When she cries, he listens, and watches from the shadows.

--

The Kurosaki brat hangs from his tail by the neck, glaring at him from half-lidded, blood-shot eyes. He wheezes, struggling to take in each breath, as the coil around his neck curls ever tighter. There is no hope for Kurosaki Ichigo. There is no escape.

And still, he is defiant. Even to the point of death.

_What insolence!_ Ulquiorra thinks to himself contemptuously, disgustedly. Why did he insist on such foolery? Such misplaced fortitude? _This pitiful piece of garbage should have died long ago. I was a fool to have let him live…_

But no. The boy still held his uses --- as trivial as they might be --- and Ulquiorra intends to play the child to his fullest extent. _As long as he has hope_, the Fourth Espada muses, staring balefully into the still-defiant eyes of the dying Kurosaki Ichigo, _he can be used._

That woman was a fool to have put so much trust in such an unreliable individual. He will make sure that she learns from her mistake. He will be doing her a favor by showing her the error of her ways and destroying the one who has let all her hopes crash to the ground in such a way.

Ulquiorra can feel them --- the Quincy boy and the woman --- approaching. A new opportunity rises along with their ascent to the top of the dome. The Kurosaki boy has failed to impress him, so perhaps there will be hope for the woman. The Quincy is inconsequential; a pawn.

When they reach the top of the dome and leap to the surface of the shell-white stone, the first thing Ulquiorra notices is the woman. Her eyes are wild; feral, as they stare up at him in shock. Ulquiorra feels the weight of her eyes on his back, burning him with the intensity of their despair.

How… delicious.

Her chest heaves, causing her shoulders to shake as she runs from the Quincy boy, dodging away from him as he tries to pull her back. She is shivering; suppressing the tears, which amuses Ulquiorra very much. It is hopeless. He can see how her faith fades --- dies --- behind those wide sienna eyes. What beautiful despair!

_What strength!_ He ruminates to himself, entranced. _I wonder…_

"You're just in time," His lips curve cruelly, and a stray breeze permeates the air, unforgiving in its iciness. The woman's bare shoulders contract as the freezer-esque wind embraces her, causing her coppery-red hair to writhe in the breeze. "to see the man you put so much faith in… die by my hand."

As he predicted, the woman tenses, mouth opening in a silent cry of protest. Her feet skid to a stop at the base of the pillar upon which he stands, holding the man that she so adores by the pitiful remains of whatever his wretched life still retained.

Ulquiorra's fingers brush the boy's chest. A small, black cero forms at the tip of his talon-like index finger, sucking away the nearby light. The malicious hum of power it exudes causes the air to prickle unpleasantly.

"_STOP!!!_" Her scream is shrill and filled with blind desperation, the direness of the situation clearly clouding over her judgment.

When he releases the cero, it is as if it appeared for a single second, and then was gone within the same instant. It dissipates so quickly that the only thing visible to the naked eye is the explosion of blood and burnt reiatsu that explodes from Kurosaki Ichigo's back; before that too dissipates into thin air, completely incinerated by Ulquiorra's cero.

Kurosaki Ichigo's eyes are empty and glass-like; unseeing. The hole in his chest gapes, like a reverberant cavern deprived of all light. There is no blood. There is no gore. All that remains is a macabre hole, incinerated through the center of his torso, tendrils of smoke rising cloyingly at the edges.

The woman is crying now. Ulquiorra is strangely pleased.

He had never liked it when she cried. Not _because_ she had cried, of course, but because of the noise, the mess, the wild eyes and flushed face. _How human of her! How vulnerable!_ During those times, Ulquiorra wondered why she hadn't realized yet that Hueco Mundo was no place for either. But this time… something was different.

This time, her tears fall soundlessly. He approves of this new development, the moon and the tang of burnt blood singing high in the sky. The acrid smell pervades the ice-cold air, and the woman's face turns to a pleasing ashen color in response, complimenting the liquid crystals that run silently down her cheeks.

Ulquiorra has never considered himself to be a sadist, but when he sees these silent tears streaming down the woman's face, he can't help but suddenly notice how beautiful she is when she cries.

--

**A/N:** Written on 5/12/09. This is also a bit of a repost, since my other account was causing trouble for me.

I appreciate any kind of feedback.


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